


The Heart's Desire

by Syndal



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-29
Updated: 2015-01-29
Packaged: 2018-03-09 12:41:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3250070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syndal/pseuds/Syndal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She's the Keeper's first, charged with preserving elven culture, and he's human -- quick and crude and wrong, but right. He's wide hands, wide shoulders, and nothing that she's used to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Heart's Desire

They’re still slick from the river when she pins him to the sweetgrass, a wicked gleam to her eyes and a smirk on her lips. 

He reaches for her, grunting in frustration when she leans away from his touch with a husky laugh. He wants to pull her atop himself, wants to be inside her now, now, _now_. She shivers in the breeze and frowns. 

“Are you cold, sa’lath?” She asks him. 

His body is wet and his hair still damp, but Maker he is anything but cold. His blood is aflame with want for her, pulsing, beating through his veins like drums.

“I’d be warmer if you were on top of me,” He says, reaching for her again. This time she traps his hands, half-heartedly. He could break from her if he wanted to. He has _never_ wanted to.

She presses a kiss to each thick wrist in turn and murmurs, “Patience, patience.”

Thom has never been a patient man, but for her he will try.

 

***

 

It starts with his lips, chapped and warm and full, soft kisses left fluttering. She thinks of the courses those lips have plotted against her skin in the dark of tents and alcoves. She thinks of the rough pull of them at her nipples, teeth grazing just so, until the sight of them alone is enough to thrill her. She tilts his head back and kisses him fully, deeply, and he groans his approval.

Her fingers trail lazily down his neck, down the column of his throat, until they reach his broad chest. Never had she thought to look upon a man’s chest and thank the Creators — until she saw him bare. He was a latticework of scars, old and new, puckered white flesh and thick, dark hair from the hollow of his throat to his navel, and lower. Oh, she could have fallen to her knees and thanked any god that listened that night.

“You are beautiful, ma sa’lath,” she breathes against his neck between languid kisses.

His chuckle is deep and low, but his cheeks turn the most delightful shade of pink. “I don’t think anyone’s ever called me that before. Been called worse, I suppose.” 

Elven men — _her_ men before all this began — were hairless save for the hair on their heads. Lithe sleekness and bow-callused fingers. Thom is nothing like them, and she loves that. Thom is quick and crude and wrong, but right. He's wide hands, wide shoulders, and nothing that she's used to.

She pulls away. “I want to taste you,” she says simply. “Will you let me?” 

“Maker’s balls, do you really have to ask?” His laugh is lighthearted and happy, and it sings to her. 

He draws a sharp breath when her tongue dips into his navel, lapping and sucking as she grips his thick cock. The cold air stings his lungs, but it is filled with her scent.

 

***

 

The Inquisitor is not delicate in anything she does. She conquers and claims, takes what she wants. Always she has wanted him, even when it shamed her to say it.

She sucks greedily, both hands working his shaft. She does not stop or slow, and Thom moans openly, muttering curses and encouragement.

“Just like that,” he groans, head thrown back and fingers tangled in her hair. She practically hums with satisfaction, proud of herself as always.

Another minute passes with nothing but the sound of birdsong, flowing water, and his own cries. She looks up at him with those big, dark eyes. Maker, he loves her beyond all else, beyond all sense. He would die for her, for this — to be entwined with each other against the earth, free of cares. The thought is intoxicating, it makes him dizzy — his back arches, his hips thrust up once, twice against her mouth, and he comes with a gasp.  

She swallows what he gives, no apprehension, no disgusted look shot angrily in his direction. She simply cleans him with her mouth and tongue before pressing a soft kiss to the curve of his belly. Afterwards, she falls beside him in the cool grass, her hand in his. 

“Ma’arlath,” she sighs contentedly.

Maker, he loves her too.


End file.
